


Honey Dew

by Hth



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related: The Rig, M/M, None - Freeform, Series: Sixteen Instinctual Behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hth/pseuds/Hth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's on his way home; Blair's bored.  That's...pretty much the whole story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey Dew

## Honey Dew

by Betty Plotnick

Author's webpage: <http://internettrash.com/users/livia/plotnick/betty.htm>

* * *

Honey Dew   
by Betty Plotnick 

10:05 a.m. 

"Ellison." 

"Jim, where the heck are you?" 

"Trying to park." 

"I woke up, and you were just gone, man." 

"Relax, Timmy. If anything goes wrong, Lassie will run for help." 

"Yeah, you're funny. Jim, I feel like shit. My head hurts." 

"What's the matter?" 

"What's the _matter_? Jim, a big -- big oil rig thing fell on my head! Where are you? Are you in our lot?" 

"No, I'm at the grocery store. Want some aspirin?" 

"I have a concussion, Jim; I don't need aspirin." 

"You do not have a concussion, Sandburg. You're fine. Look, you're probably just tired. I'll pick up some lunch on my way home." 

"You're on your way?" 

"I've just got a few errands. Jesus, Sandburg, toughen up." 

"Asshole. Look, pick up a few things for me while you're there." 

"Such as?" 

"I need minced ginger." 

"You need _what_?" 

"For stir fry. Comes in a little jar, it's in the produce section. Looks just like the jar of minced garlic in the fridge--" 

"Right, the garlic." 

"Yeah, except ginger. See if there's any bok choy -- but not if it's too expensive. Don't pay, like, a fortune for it. Just, if it's there, if it's reasonable. I want some apples." 

"What kind of apples?" 

"I don't care." 

"Bullshit you don't care. What kind of apples do you want?" 

"Whatever, man, whatever they've got. I'm not picky." 

"You _are_ picky. You want Jonathans, you want Galas, you want Delicious? Just tell me what you want." 

"I want apples! Whatever!" 

"After you ragged on me for two hours when I brought home the other apples?" 

"Well, not *Fujis,* man. I can't eat Fujis." 

"Sandburg--" 

"Okay, okay! Jonathans -- no, Jonagolds. If they have Jonagolds. I like _them_ apples." 

"Everybody's a comedian, after their first couple of head injuries." 

"Fuck you. Melons, too." 

"What kind of--" 

"Fresh. I don't care, get whatever's fresh. No, man, it really doesn't matter! Just pick something." 

"Anything else?" 

"That's it. That's got me. Just -- come on home, man. I feel like shit." 

"You mentioned. I'll be there when I can." 

10:46 a.m. 

"'Lo?" 

"Sandburg, you'd better _hope_ you have a concussion, because otherwise when I get home I'm going to kick your ass." 

"What? What did I do? I'm just sitting here watching cartoons!" 

"Look, it does not bother me that you have some kind of sick Tommy Lee Jones fetish--" 

"I _so_ don't know what you're talking about." 

"--but if you're going to keep _The Fugitive_ for two weeks and then drop it off without paying the late fees, why don't you just buy the damn movie? I just paid six goddamn dollars for your movie -- and why don't you even have your own account?" 

"Because I don't have a credit card. The financial Nazis at the Movie Gallery won't let you open an account now without a major credit card. They wouldn't take my check card. It's easier to get a Swiss Bank account than rent a new release these days." 

"Yeah, well, you owe me. Your late fees should be your own problem." 

"Sure. I'll leave the money in the red tupperware." 

"Smartass. I _mean_ it; I want my six bucks back." 

"I said all right! Christ. And, for your information, he won an _Academy Award_ for that movie." 

"Yeah, so does Ben Kingsley, and I don't see you out renting _Ghandi_ twice a month." 

"I like Noah." 

"Who?" 

"Noah, the Marshal with the long hair?" 

"The one who gets shot?" 

"Shot *at.* They send him out for doughnuts a lot. I like him. He and Tommy were so doing--" 

"You're done. Have the money when I get back." 

"Are you on your way?" 

"Soon. I'll see you." 

11:30 a.m. 

"Name's Ellison." 

"Yes, sir, Mr. Ellison. I have it right here." 

"No -- no, I'm here for a fitting." 

"No...no, sir, I'm sorry. There's been some confusion, I guess, but your tuxedo is ready." 

Jim sighed. "Well, let me try it on before I put down the deposit, at least." 

And it fit. Jim smoothed down the lapels and fixed his reflection with a critical stare. It...fit. Which meant they had his measurements, and this was a new place, just been open a month or two. Sandburg had tipped him to it; one of the owners was a design student, or had been, or something; anyway, she'd gone to school with Sandburg for a while. 

Sandburg must have called in with his measurements. Idly, Jim wondered which information was more personal, a man's bank PIN or his inseam. Well, it was Sandburg's party, he guessed; some kind of museum benefit or something, and frankly Jim wasn't even sure why he was going, since Sandburg's entire pitch had consisted of, "It's gonna *suck,* man, it's gonna be a total snooze. You want me to subject some poor _woman_ to a night of cheap chicken and sexagenarian tenured professors? What are you, _opposed_ to my love life now?" 

Somehow, in order to prove that he only wanted the best for Sandburg and his future conjugal happiness, Jim had ended up agreeing to go to the benefit. Well, what was one night out of his life? Maybe there was a sexagenarian anthropology professor out there somewhere who looked like Sophia Loren. 

Jim tugged on the sleeves, wanting to find something wrong with the tuxedo, but reluctantly giving up hope. It looked good. It looked...damn good. He tried it with his arms crossed. He tried standing with his side toward the mirror. Still good. Looked great, really. He smirked at his reflection, predicting that a long, frustrated night would be all the revenge he needed for the way Sandburg had shoe-horned him into this benefit dinner. 

Not a very friendly thought. Jim put down the deposit on Sandburg's tuxedo, too, and resolved not to nag him about it. 

1:14 p.m. 

Scent was soaking through him, seeping in through his eyelids no matter how hard Jim pressed them shut. He was trying not to breathe, but the sound worked its way into his lungs, unstoppable, until Jim was coughing and choking. He struggled, but his movements were warm and slow, and everything was out of control. He was sinking, because there was no land in sight, and because he couldn't...control...anything. 

As he flailed helplessly, Jim bumped into something that tasted like metal, and he tried with slippery hands to grab onto it. He could see swirls of deep rainbow colors, like staring into pools of oil, and his fingers slipped right off the image, and Jim was sinking again. 

*Jim! Jim!!!* Blair's voice curled like a hand in his collar, and Jim fought like hell against the weight of roaring and weeping that wanted to pull him downward, until finally he broke the surface, and the air was clean and mild and peaceful. And Blair was there, on the edge of the vat, saying *Just don't touch me, just don't touch me, just don't touch me* with panic in his voice, and there was nothing Jim could do except reach out to calm him, because somehow, standing in the spacious, clean air, Blair was drowning. 

He wrapped his arms around Blair's shoulders, clumsily trying to pull him up out of the murk, and Blair's hands touched his face, impossibly hot, burning hot. *Just don't touch me* Blair kept gasping as he kissed Jim, and his mouth was heavy, cast iron and fire, and Jim hung onto him even harder, hearing Blair beg *Just don't touch me, just don't touch me* like his life depended on it while Jim was kissing him more and more deeply. Like his life depended on it. 

*Just don't touch me,* Blair pleaded, while Jim held his face between his hands and kissed him, his fingers rubbing against Blair's temples, saying, *It's fine, you're fine, you're probably just tired, you're fine, you're fine, you're fine.* 

And suddenly the vat was gone, and Jim was treading water. He couldn't see anything, not in any direction, nothing but grey sky and rolling grey water, and he was freezing cold. Something bobbed to the surface a few yards out, and with a sudden shock, Jim could see that it was Blair, floating face-down in the calm ocean. 

Fixing on the dark shape, he skimmed through the water, all fear forgotten except the fearful certainty that when he reached Blair, he'd find nothing but a dead and eyeless body. He reached out and grabbed the strings of wet hair, which felt like seaweed between his fingers, and he pulled Blair's head up. Blair looked at him curiously and said, *Jim, what is it?* Not in a Jim, what do you want? way, like he might if Jim had woken him out of a sleep, but an honest question, as though Blair were seeing something he couldn't explain, and he knew Jim would have the answers. 

*I don't know,* Jim answered, hating to see that confidence fade from Blair's eyes, but totally at a loss for anything better. 

But Blair only smiled at him. *That's right,* Blair said kindly. *You don't.* 

There was a jangled sound, and Jim had the cellphone out before he realized that he was awake, or that it was the garage's phone that was ringing. He rubbed his eyes, trying to fix his sense of reality around familiar things; a row of plastic chairs so uncomfortable that Jim was amazed anyone could doze off in them, outdated copies of Newsweek, a free bank calendar hanging behind the desk, the F-150 on the other side of the glass. "How much longer?" he asked the receptionist when she hung up the phone. 

"Not long," she answered, without bothering to look up. 

"It's already been.... I was told it would take twenty minutes. I've been here--" 

"Not much longer." 

Jim stifled a sigh. "People have places to be, you know." 

"Not much longer," she repeated, and her tone added the, _asshole_ onto the end by its pure, faceless good cheer, and Jim slouched back down in his chair, resigned. 

2:00 p.m. 

"Ellison." 

"You _totally_ owe me, man." 

"I had to get new tires; it took forever. Screw the aspirin, Chief; I'm bringing you horse tranquilizers." 

"I'm just having trouble believing that I threw myself on a _bomb_ for you, and you leave me alone all day with a concussion and--" 

"For the last time, you do not have a concussion." 

"--and bored out of my mind! Oh, but while you're out, can you pick up the tuxes for the--" 

"Already done." 

"So where are you now?" 

"In line for the stamp machine outside the post office." 

"Good. We're out of stamps." 

"No kidding?" 

"Yeah, yeah, you know. So..you having a good day?" 

"Not really. Just a bunch of errands." 

"I would've come along if you'd woken me up." 

"You've missed plenty of sleep on my account." 

"I'm so fucking _bored_!" 

"I'll be home after this." 

"Don't get lost." 

"Blow me." 

"Shit, Jim, I totally forgot -- there's a check in the glove compartment that has to get to the registrar's office before it closes at four. Do you think....?" 

"Well. Since I owe you." 

"You're a god, Jim." 

"Blow me...." 

"Fucking tease. Just get the check there before four." 

"I got it under control, Chief." 

2:55 p.m. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sandburg--" 

"No, it's -- Ellison. I'm Blair Sandburg's roommate." 

"Well, this won't cover...I mean, it isn't enough." 

"Not enough?" 

"It's enough for tuition, with the grant and the teaching stipend, but there are some additional charges. Late fees from the library, a parking ticket, and material fees for the archaeology practicum." 

Jim sighed. "How much is he short?" 

"Forty-eight dollars." 

"I'll write a second check." 

Before he was even finished dating the check, Jim knew that he wouldn't mention the forty-eight dollars to Blair. He could afford it; Blair was always broke. He'd made his point with the six bucks at Movie Gallery, and with the two of them, it had always been about...the principle of the thing. Maintaining the illusion of territoriality, and the reality of home. 

Where Jim Ellison was long overdue. 

3:22 p.m. 

"Sandburg! I got a goddamn parking ticket on campus!" 

"Don't park illegally, man; what can I say?" 

"I didn't; I was in a red lot." 

"Was there a triangle on the sign?" 

"What? I don't know. Red tag, red lot." 

"Would that it were that simple, man. The ones with triangles on them have the hours inverted on weekends, but regular hours on weekdays. The ones with the circled triangles--" 

"Who the fuck came up with this system?" 

"Parking & Transportation, man. They're total fascists over there. Just be glad you weren't driving my car; they look for my car. They hate me. They send me another copy of the P&T handbook every time I get a ticket, just to make their little point." 

"There's a _handbook_?" 

"It's like learning the Qabbalah, Jim, I'm telling you. It took three of us and a guy from the physics department to figure out what I did wrong last time they ticketed me." 

"Well...anyway. I'm home." 

"Hey." 

Blair appeared in the doorway of his room, and smiled. 

End 


End file.
